


Inconvenient

by eadunne2



Series: Inconvenient [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chef Castiel, Chef Dean, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mention Of Homophobia, One Shot, attitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You," he says. “Don't just get to come in here and rip my heart open, and speak about food in a way that I've been missing for a decade, and turn out to be the chef whose creations I've been sneaking into Gallant to eat for months even though I fucking hate Roman, and now you’re the most extraordinarily beautiful human being I've ever laid eyes on. You don't get to do that." He plants his hands on his hips "This is very inconvenient.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inconvenient

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. One shot. Ch 2 will probably be smut. Tag recs would be wonderful, I'm struggling to think of others.

"Are you Castiel Novak?”

“No.” They’ve been closed for an hour. 

The guy appears not to have heard. "Word on the street is you're looking for another chef for your team.” 

Cas doesn’t look up. His reading glasses have fallen all the the way down his nose, he keeps licking the papercut on his knuckle to prevent blood from getting on the tax forms, one knee is holding up two precariously balanced binders for reference, his calf is starting to tremble, and everything’s going to fall to shit in a moment. But he’s on the last one. Five more minutes. Come on, Castiel.

“I’m listening,” he says. 

“Uh…” The deep voice hesitates for a moment, then - “My name’s Dean Winchester, I’m twenty seven, I’ve been working in foodservice for over ten years. Bus boy, host, line cook, most recently, sous chef at Gallant, downtown.” 

Interesting. Cas’s pen continues flitting with ease across the tax document, but the voice before him is his focus now. He’s been to Gallant. They’ve got a gruyere grilled cheese with balsamic sauteed onions that’s to die for. If Dean can cook for Gallant, he can cook here.

“Gallant has quite a reputation.”

“They do.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Honestly?”

“No, please, I’d like an expertly crafted falsehood. Based on how intricate the story and how superfluous the details, I will then decide -”

“Christ,” he hears the guy mutter. “I wasn’t getting along with my manager.”

“Why?” Cas asks simply. 

He knows Dick Roman - asshole, homophobe, racist, the whole nine, so he believes Dean when he says, “He...uh…” There’s a sigh as one of the binders on Cas’s knee shifts. He catches it, cat-like reflexes, and rights it again. “He’s a bigot. Too damn comfortable throwing around slurs. I dunno. I can’t...I don’t mind disagreeing with people, but I can’t work for someone who’s genuinely evil. ‘S not my thing.”

Good man, Cas thinks, surprised. There aren't many people willing to put action to their beliefs - more likely to tweet their displeasure, or roll their eyes quietly on the periphery. Cas has made a living in a world that doesn't particularly appreciate honor or justice or activism and he finds himself surprisingly grateful that there are still men like this in the world. “I can’t pay you what he can.”

“I know.” 

“Then why here?”

“You have a good reputation. You mean what you say. Your people like you.”

“Says who?”

“Charlie.”

“Ah.” Cas lets himself smile, small but sweet. “Alright. Well, why should I hire you?”

“I'm kind of an asshole, honestly,” the guy says and Castiel hears feet shifting on the tile. "But I show up on time, do what I say I'm going to do, and I know my shit. Good food is good food no matter where you go. That's the business I'm in.”

Fair enough. "Good food, hmm? Like what?”

There's a smile in the guy’s voice as he says, "It’s all about focus. Attentiveness. Intent isn't worth much if you can't execute it. Finding the optimal heat to flash fried greens versus slow cook a roast, for example. Knowing what's in season to compile the best menu. A creative twist on a classic.” 

“Gruyere grilled cheese with balsamic onions," Cas interrupts. "That was you.”

"Yes, sir." The guy sounds pleased and Cas is grateful to be at the initialing portion of the form so he can think through Gallant’s as he speaks.

"What else? Let me see…The butternut mac & cheese? Yours?”

"Yeah. It's good right? The squash lends a little bit of sweetness, and you can play up the balance of salt and spice with so many options from that base.”

Cas nods. "True. I'm a fan of the bacon and chives.”

“‘S my favorite, too.”

“Were the brioche breakfast sandwiches you as well?”

The shrug is evident in Dean's voice as he says, "They were my idea. One of the other chefs on staff has a great mind for sweet and savory combinations, she did a lot of work on those, too. Jo Harvelle, if you're ever looking. She'd be a great hire, too.”

"Too, huh?” - but Cas is teasing and makes sure it's evident on his face and voice. “The pretzel pancakes with white chocolate?”

"Obviously." 

It's been along time since Cas met someone who loves food the way he does, who respects it the way he does. “Favorite food.”

"At Gallant?”

“No. Ever," Cas murmurs. 

“Oh.” Dean’s voice is impossibly soft and the change is so jarring that Cas almost loses his place in the paperwork.

“I -” The guy sighs deeply and Cas waits, checking off boxes in the silence. “My ma’s apple pie.”

The silence is not a punctuation so Castiel waits, pulse trembling at his wrists and neck. 

“Butter crust, apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, raisins. Melts in your mouth. The crust was Grandma’s recipe, the filling was hers. She used to make it for me ‘n’ my brother, Christmas, birthdays…”

“She’s gone.” Cas’s chest aches with the knowledge and the responding silence is even worse. 

There's a soft sniff in the silence of the office and Cas signs the second to last page and flips it soundlessly. Of its own volition his jaw works tensely for a moment, and then he speaks into the cool of the air-conditioned room, into the shadow of the scent of garlic, and rosemary, and espresso. 

“Pancakes,” he whispers.

"What?”

"Peanut butter banana pancakes. My dad used to make them for us. Not all the time. Special treats. Birthdays like you said, or snow days. We'd wake up to that smell: coffee, and maple bacon, and pancakes. He wasn't very good at telling us he loved us, but when he got up early, make each of us our own plate even though the table was so full of siblings he had to stand at the counter, on those mornings, we heard it loud and clear.”

The nod is evident even without looking. "So you know," Dean murmurs.

"Yes,” Cas replies simply and the understanding is too great to bear, so he shifts the conversation. “I'd sell my soul for a perfectly cooked burger, though," he jokes, and Dean huffs a laugh.

“God, I hear that. Why is it so fucking hard to get a decent burger in this city?”

Cass initials the last line on the last page and tucks it neatly into the binder, snapping the cover closed emphatically. Finally freed from administrative responsibilities, he tosses the rest of the filing on the desk and looks up. "Right?!" He grins, and holds out his hand to introduce himself and then freezes. "Oh no.”

"What?" The guy looks worried. 

"Oh no, no, no.” Cas stands up from behind his desk wincing at the tightness in his hips and straightens his vest. "You," he says. “Don't just get to come in here and rip my heart open, and speak about food in a way that I've been missing for a decade, and turn out to be the chef whose creations I've been sneaking into Gallant to eat for months even though I fucking hate Roman, and now you’re the most extraordinarily beautiful human being I've ever laid eyes on. You don't get to do that." He plants his hands on his hips "This is very inconvenient.”

A cautious grin begins to spread across the man's face. "I'm sorry?" he offers. But Cas just shakes his head, so exhausted that he can't be bothered by professionalism or tact. "Why are you so attractive!" He shouts "It's not fair!”

Dean laughs way down deep in his gut, and of course that's beautiful too. “You're one to talk.” Cas pushes past him, blushing, out the office door and into the back of house. "Wait.” At first Cas thinks Dean's asking him not to leave until he continues, “If I work for you, I can’t ask you out?” 

Castiel pops the cap from one of the bottles of beer he’s just grab from the fridge and hands it over. "It would be very unprofessional.”

"But…?” Dean takes a swig of the beer and Cas leans against one of the prep tables to watch him - the long line of his throat from his head tipping back, the way the low lighting in the kitchen brings out fire in his hair and moss in his eyes. Freckles and pink cheeks make him look disarmingly young, but Cas doesn't miss the lines at the corners of his eyes, or the scars covering his hands. This man has lived a life, regardless of his boyish charm.

“But I'd like it very much if you did.”

"Which?" Dean asks, head tilted to one side, and Cas wants to bite his neck, lick the shadows from the dips in his collarbone where it peeks from beneath his T-shirt. "Work for you or ask you out?”

"Both," Castiel admits, eyes widening as Dean crosses to him and sets the beer down on stainless steel before bracketing him in with an arm on either side of his body. 

“Well then,” Dean whispers, face inches from Cas’s own. 

“Well then,” Cas replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at seasless.tumblr.com


End file.
